Count of Monte Gribeau
by Runt Thunderbelch
Summary: Nanny Ogg's fabulously wealthy cat Greebo is on a mission of revenge.
1. The Prison of Shadow Deep

Disclaimer:

Terry Pratchett owns the rights to the Discworld. AFAIK, the rights to Alexander Dumas' "The Count of Monte Cristo" are in the public domain.

Timeframe:

The events in this story take place before those in Going Postal 

**The Count of Monte Gribeau**

By

Runt Thunderbelch

Chapter 1: The Prison of Shadow Deep

"Gyntha Ogg, you are eight times crazier than crazy. I don't understand how you can keep talking me into these hair-brained stunts," Granny Weatherwax grumbled as she and Nanny Ogg crept through the inky night towards the ominous prison called Shadow Deep.

"Esme Weatherwax, go home! I don't want you here! How many times do I have to say it?" the spherical figure ahead of her whispered back.

"Ha! Reversible headology! Don't you use that one me, Gyntha. I invented it, you know."

"Any way you reverse it, I can do this better without you. Have you seen Greebo?"

"Shh! You're going to get us both caught. Breaking into a prison is a crime, you know."

"Breaking out of prison is a crime. There's no law against breaking into prison. Besides, I'm just bringing my grandson a cake. How can that be a crime?"

"Shhhh!"

"Where's Greebo? Here kitty, kitty, kitty."

CG

The rat hurried along in terror, knowing that, if it panicked, it would die. A huge, one-eyed tom cat was tracking it. The rat had caught a couple of glances of its pursuer, enough to scare the bejesus out of it. The cat was monstrous in size, grey, with one green eye and one blind, milky white eye. Half of an ear was missing, and the cat's face, neck and chest had more scars than an Igor's family reunion. This cat would have only three verbs in its vocabulary: rape, fight, eat. The rat wanted none of these three verbs applied to it.

The rat came to the Cages of Despair. Here, the bars weren't on the front of the prison cells but on the top of them. Cruel sunlight beat in during the day; the pouring rain soaked anyone inside; and the winter snows froze them. This was where prisoners were brought to die.

The rat grinned. It took a quick step out onto one of the bars and hurried along it. Ha! Let that fat, top-heavy cat try to follow it across this.

Of course Greebo did try to follow it. There was a chance for a deliciously plump meal, and this cat would never admit that a rat could do something he couldn't. About a third of away along the bar, Greebo cried out, "Rrwwwrrrr!" pawed vainly at the iron bars, and fell into the cell below.

CG

It goes without saying that witches like Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg had all kinds of magical powers. One of them was the ability to turn themselves, well, not invisible _per se_ but rather unnoticeable. Theoretically, a person could see them, but he'd have to be concentrating really hard to do so.

"Halt! Who goes there?"

Just their luck. They had to get a guard his first night on the job, one who still had the ability to stand in one spot all night and remain alert.

"Who indeed?" said Nanny Ogg cheerfully. "It is I, Nanny Ogg. And who are you, dear?" She strolled forward holding the cake. Granny Weatherwax followed warily.

"Wilberforce, ma'am. State your business."

"Business, dear, well it's hardly business. I'm merely taking my grandson this cake that I baked him."

"It's three o'clock in the blooming morning. He'll be fast asleep."

"Oh pish. All we Oggs are night owls. I'm sure he'll be up and around."

"Not if we nails have anything to say about it."

Nanny frowned. "Do you mean 'screws', dear?"

"Oh aye, 'screws.' Sorry, I'm kind of new at this."

"Well, you're doing fine."

"I have to check the cake, ma'am, to make sure you haven't baked a file into it."

"A file? A file! Oh, so he could file his way through his bars and escape? Why, the idea never occurred to me."

When the young guard stepped forward to examine the cake, Nanny Ogg smashed him in the head with it. Globs of cake exploded in every direction, leaving only a crowbar going BOING-OING-OING-OINGGGG! The lad's eyes crossed, and he pirouetted gracefully to the floor.

Granny Weatherwax stepped up. "He's right, you know. Baking a file into the cake would have been so much easier."

"Hush up, Esme. Since when do you know anything about the culinary arts?"

CG

"Who's there?"

"Rrwwwrrr." Greebo peered into the darkness with is one good eye.

A fist came out of the blackness, seized Greebo, and pinned him to the stone wall of the cell. "I can make you rich," hissed the voice. "Richer than you ever imagined!"

"Rrwwr. Hiss."

"My name is Edmund the Dentist. I have been wrongfully imprisoned for lo these many years. Yet I know where the world's greatest treasure is hidden! I will tell you the secret of its location, but in return you must make me a promise. You must use the treasure to get revenge against those who put me here. Is it a deal?"

Greebo waited.

"Their names are Jon Gilt, Mr. Slant, and Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler. Ankh-Morpork knows them as fine upstanding businessmen, but I know Gilt as an eel, Mr. Slant as a rat, and Dibbler as a pig. So? Will you do it?"

"Rrrwwwrr," agreed Greebo. They all sounded delicious.

CG

"Nana! What are you doing here?" gasp Little Willie Ogg.

"Shhhh. Esme and I have come to rescue you." Nanny Ogg applied the crowbar to the door of his cell.

"What! Get away from there!"

Nanny pulled and, with a mighty crack, the iron-barred door popped open. "Come on, child!"

The young man shook his head. "I only got a three-day sentence, and I've already served two. By noon tomorrow, uh [he looked around], by noon today, I'll be a free man."

"The prison hasn't been built that can hold an Ogg."

"Yes they have. This is it. Now skedaddle before you get yourself caught."

"You ain't commin'?"

"No!"

"Hrumph. I wished you said something earlier. You could have saved me and Esme a trip. Common, Esme." She took her crowbar and started to depart.

Suddenly, a powerful weight fell on one shoulder.

"Oh there you are, Mr. Puss-Puss. Aren't you the cutest little kitty? Oh yes, you are."

"Rrwwrr," agreed Greebo.


	2. The Pig, the Rat & the Eel

Chapter 2: The Pig, the Rat & the Eel

A magnificent coach and four pulled up in front of the 8th Municipal Bank of Ankh-Morpork. The coat of arms on the coach door bore the symbols of the silhouette of a cat sitting before a full moon, a single Eternal Eye staring from the top of an unfinished pyramid, a catnip flower and a dead rat. The motto emblazoned at the top was: _Raptus, Pugnam, Manducare._

The dwarf Runt Thunderbelch jumped down from the driver's seat and hurried around to open the gilded door of the coach.

Out stepped a roguish figure: a man with an eye patch, a broad-brimmed red hat sporting a white ostrich feather, a burgundy doublet, a white silk cravat, a broad belt with a breath-taking bejeweled belt buckle, and 7-League boots. "Rrwwr1."

Runt hurried up the steps to open the bank's doors for him. The plaque on the doors read:

8th Municipal Bank of Ankh-Morpork

S-M-O-T Dibbler, President

The roguish figure ascended the steps, passed through the open doors and entered into the cathedral-like bank.

The bank's president, Sever-My-Own-Trachea Dibbler, leaped from his mahogany desk and hurried over. "Good morning, kind sirs."

"Rrrwwwrrrr," growled Greebo.

"I, I beg your pardon?"

Runt translated, "My master is searching for one Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler. He could not help but notice the similarities in your names and wonders if you might know this individual's whereabouts."

"Does he owe your master money?"

"Oh, quite the contrary. My master has heard great things about C-M-O-T Dibbler and will trust his wealth to no one but he."

Dibbler's face twitched. "Come to my desk, won't you?" He led the way. Once they were all seated, Dibbler continued, "This is somewhat embarrassing. In my reckless youth, I somehow became known as Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler. That moniker was fine when I was but a humble street vendor. However, once I entered into the responsible profession of banking, I changed my name to the more appropriate 'Sever-My-Own-Trachea Dibbler'. And you gentlemen are..?"

"My master is le Compte de Monte Gribeau. I am but his humble servant, Runt Thunderbelch."

THUNK! Greebo had just dropped a very heavy leather pouch on Dibbler's desk.

Curious, Dibbler picked it up. Out poured a small hoard of rubies, diamonds, emeralds, plus coins of gold, silver, platinum and one wooden nickel. Flabbergasted, Dibbler looked up.

"Le Compte de Monte Gribeau wishes to open an account at your bank."

"I see. I see," he waved desperately for his chief clerk. The tidy little man trotted over and Dibbler handed him the pouch. "Total the contents, will you Bernard? Then open up an account in that amount for le Compte de Monte Gribeau."

"Immediately, sir." The man bowed and left.

"So you'll be staying in Anhk-Morpork?"

Runt nodded. "For the time being."

"Well then, I should introduce you to our finest citizens. Unfortunate our clacks-magnate Reacher Gilt is out of town, but his younger brother Jon, who is on his Board of Directors, is available."

"Rrrrwwrr?"

"My master asked, 'Who is Jon Gilt?' But no thank you. My master needs to first retain legal counsel and wonders if you could recommend him a noteworthy lawyer."

CG

"Mr. Slant will see you now," announced Mr. Slant's secretary.

S-M-O-T Dibbler, Runt Thunderbelch and le Compte de Monte Gribeau filed passed her as they walked towards the open door of Mr. Slant's office. As Monsieur le Compte passed, he drew an exquisitely sharp fingernail gently along her vulnerable jawline. "Rrwwrrr," he whispered.

The secretary's knees nearly buckled. There was no way of missing the way the single eye of the count seemed to burn her clothing off. His animal magnetism could be cut with a knife. It could be beaten with a sledge hammer. It could even give elephant rides down at the zoo. The secretary knew what she'd be dreaming of tonight, and it wasn't going to be her milquetoast of a husband.

"Greeting, gentlemen," came a breathy greeting.

The hair on Greebo's neck stood on end. Mr. Slant looked dead. In fact, now that Greebo looked closely at Mr. Slant, it was clear that he was dead. He had that pallid look of a zombie.

Dibbler beamed, "Good morning, Mr. Slant. May I introduce you to le Compte de Monte Gribeau . . . and, uh, Runt Thunderbelch"

"Charmed," said Mr. Slant in a way to make it perfectly clear he had not been charmed by anything since his heart stopped beating. "How may the law firm of Morcombe, Slant & Honeyplace be of service to you?"

"Rrwwwrrrwwrr?"

"My master asked if you have read all those books," translated Runt, indicating the wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling bookcase behind Mr. Slant.

"You may tell your master that I wrote most of them." A rictus grin made its appearance on the zombie's sallow face.

"Mrrrmmmmrrr rrrwwrr yaarwww."

"My master says that he is seeking legal representation because some of the activities which he is planning in the near future are borderline legal."

"You tell you master than anything he does in the future will be unquestionably legal. Have no worries. Indeed, anyone who claims the count is acting illegally will face the wrath of Morcombe, Slant & Honeyplace."

The count appeared to smile, and he began to purr.

CG

"Has the clacks penetrated as far as Monte Gribeau, Monsieur le Compte?" asked Jon Gilt politely. Greebo's host was dressed in formal black so form fitting that at times his clothing appeared to be painted on. In a corner of the room, a stringed quartet was playing music so dreary that only a zombie like Mr. Slant could fully appreciate it. The well-tailored and beautifully coiffed guests murmured with great savoir faire. Servants glided among them with trays of canapés and glasses of champagne.

"Rrrwwwrr?"

"My master asks, 'What is the clacks?'"

"Ah monsieur, it is the ultimate in communications. There are clacks towers throughout the city and spreading out in all directions from the city. Semaphore towers by day, light towers by night. Messages fly along them, carrying vital information and instructions and, need I say it, wealth. The man who controls the clacks towers controls the wealth of individuals, of companies, of nations, and indeed, of the entire Discworld."

"Rrrwwr?"

"And who is that man?"

"Why, my brother Reacher of course. And naturally, the rest of us on the Board of Directors."

"Rwwrrr?"

"An how much would a seat on the Board of Directors cost?"

"Oh I'm sorry. We are a close corporation. There are no further seats available."

"Mmmrrrrrwwr."

"Not even for, say, one million Anhk-Morpork dollars?"

"Ha, ha, very droll. There's not that much money in the entire world."

"There is, you know," replied Runt. "I've seen it. He has it. And more."

Jon Gilt's mouth dropped.

Runt turned back to the count for any further translating, but his master was staring transfixed. Across the room, just under the full-length curtains, a fat rat was crawling along, unseen by the other guests.

"Rraaaowwww!" Le Compte of Monte Gribeau leaped up onto the buffet tabled. Ignoring the gasps of the crowd, he bounded over to the dessert table and dove headfirst at the rat, who took off running. Le Compte went scrabbling after it on all fours.

Women screamed. Men shouted. Servants scrambled.

Runt said, "Please, you will excuse my master's little eccentricities, won't you?"

End notes (sorry, FanFic can't do footnotes)

1 Greebo is morphologally challenged. Although not a true werecat, his form has been changing back and forth from cat to human ever since his adventures in Witches Abroad.


	3. Le Chateau du Chat

Chapter 3: Le Chateau du Chat

As the sun set, Runt Thunderbelch was replacing the plaque on the outside of the rented mansion with one which announced:

Le Chateau du Chat

As he was finishing, there was the clip-clopping of hooves as a half dozen carriages pulled up. Their doors swung open, and a tsunami of young women emerged. These were the kind of young ladies you would take home to meet mommy and daddy if mommy and daddy happened to be out of town for the rest of the week. They undoubted had names like Ruby, Bubbles, Crystal, Goldie, Angel, Kitten and Boom Boom. The girls brushed passed Runt and giggled their way up the steps to the front entrance.

Le Compte de Monte Gribeau threw open the twin doors to the mansion and welcomed them with a lusty, "Rrrwwrrrr!"

But really, what else should Runt have been expecting? The master had an animal lustiness about him which could not be denied. He attracted women the way that black satin attracts white lint. Runt sighed, picked up his tools and climbed the steps.

Inside, the liquor cabinet was under attack by the thirst-crazed wenches. Wine was flowing like er, well, wine. One young lady who had somehow misplaced her skirt was swinging from the crystal chandelier. Le Compte de Monte Gribeau waded through the falderal with a tankard of milk in one hand and a redhead in the other. "Rrwwwrrooorr!" This was like the last days of the infamous cities of Syphilus and Gonorrhia.

Runt thought about this. He'd led a very sheltered life down in the mines of the Little Big Tiny Mountains. Now here were women, wild women, painted women, the kind his mother had always warned him about. What to do? What to do? What to do? Runt wandered over hesitantly to one of the nearest girls, a very pretty one who was about ready to fall out of the top of her low-cut dress. He bent over and whispered a suggestion in her ear.

SLAP!

Runt held his throbbing patch of beard and retreated to the kitchen where he put down his tools. Okay. Strike One. Runt thought about what he had said. Perhaps his approach had been a little too direct. That was why the girl had been offended. He decided to try again, only more subtlety.

He went back out to the party. It seemed as if the girls were even more drunk and were wearing fewer clothes than before. He took that as a good sign. He went up to another girl who was wearing only flowery, yellow underwear and whispered in her ear.

SLAP! KICK!

Runt retreated back to the kitchen. Okay. Strike Two.

Alcohol, that was the trick! He had to maximize his chances by focusing on a girl who was so drunk that she'd lost her sense of good judgment and also the ability to focus her eyes.

He went back and chose his next candidate carefully. She was a cute brunette, wearing only a bath towel. In one hand, she held an empty champagne class and in the other hand, she held an empty champagne bottle. Her reeling walk made it look as if she was traversing the deck of a schooner during a full gale. Runt found a chilled bottle of champagne, opened it, went over to the wench, held her glass steady while he filled it, and then removed her empty bottle of champagne and replaced it with the one he had brought.

"Thank cue, slur," she said. "Ewe art a truge jelloman."

He bent forward and whispered his suggestion.

"Surrey, surrey. Two macho annoys. Slay that again?"

Runt repeated the suggestion, very slowly and clearly.

SLAP! KICK! PUNCH! ELBOW! GOUGE! STOMP! HIT! BITE! JUDO CHOP! KNEE! SMACK! JAB! HEADBUTT!

Runt stumbled back into the kitchen, his shin badly barked, his lip split, his ear swelling, and blood oozing from a place on his scalp which used to have hair.

Okay. Foul tip.

The next morning, Runt stumbled alone out of the servant's quarters and into the kitchen. Two very hung-over young ladies were drooping at the kitchen table.

"Are you the cook?" one of them moaned.

"No, the driver."

"Where'e the cook?"

"We don't have one."

She contemplated this. "How can you not have a cook?"

"We just moved in yesterday. We're not really settled yet. So this morning, one of you can be the honorary cook."

"I dunno how to cook."

Her friend shrugged. "Don't look at me."

"Ah, don't worry about it," said Runt. "There were how many women who piled in here yesterday? I'm sure one of them can cook."

"Nope."

Her friend agreed. "Cooking's not really our strong suit."

"Oh, well," muttered Runt. "I guess I'm the cook then. How hard can it be?" He went over and looked at the stove. And looked some more. And looked some more.

"Fire?" suggested one of the girls.

"Ah yes," said Runt.

The formal dining room of Le Chateau du Chat was soon filled with hung-over and occasionally clothed young women having bacon flambé, scrambled eggs flambé, toast flambé, waffles flambé, coffee flambé, omelets flambé, ham flambé, oatmeal flambé, poached eggs flambé, and orange juice flambé.

"What are you _doing_ in there!"

"Haven't the foggiest," admitted Runt.

"You guys gotta hire a cook."

"So you're the driver?"

"Yeah," said Runt.

"Do you drive better than you cook?"

"He's alive isn't he? So he's gotta be."

"Thanks," said Runt, trying to sound sarcastic.

"Where do you drive him?"

"Who? The count?" replied Runt. "All over."

"F'instance?"

"Well I dunno. Yesterday, we drove over to talk to Sever-My-Own-Trachea Dibbler at the 8th Municipal Bank, and then we went to talk to Mr. Slant at the law offices of Morcombe, Slant & Honeyplace, and then to Jon Gilt's townhouse, and finally over here, so we could rent this place."

The clatter of silverware and glasses suddenly vanished. The girls went from mindless chatter to absolute silence.

"Dibbler?"

"Mr. Slant?"

"Jon Gilt?"

Runt's eyes flickered back and forth. Food had stopped halfway to the girls' mouths. They were looking at him with fear-filled eyes of blue, brown, green and bloodshot. Mouths hung open in little o's. "Er, what do you ladies know that I don't?"

"Oh, those guys is bad news."

"Bad? They is crooks."

"Ruthless."

"Year, remember what they did to that dentist guy?"

"What dentist guy?"

"You know. Edmund."

"Yeah! Edmund the Dentist."

Did Runt dare ask, "What happened to Edmund the Dentist?"

"Oh, it was awful! Y'see, Edmund had come into a little money."

"A lot of money."

"A whole lot of money."

"Okay, Edmund had come into a whole lot of money, and so he wanted to buy a lot of stock in the clack's company, so he could get a seat on the Board of Directors."

"Yeah."

"But he didn't trust Jon Gilt, and Jon Gilt said he didn't trust Edmund. So Edmund went to the Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler Escrow Company and hired him to hold the money for the stock until the stock was actually delivered."

"Yeah."

"But Jon Gilt got to Dibbler, bribed him as it were."

"I heard he threatened him."

"Naw, it was bribed. So anyway, Dibbler turns Edmund's money over to Gilt before Gilt delivers any stock. And presto, Edmund's cut out of the deal. Gilt now has the stock and the money."

"So Edmund threatens to sue."

"Big mistake."

"Jon Gilt, he hires Morcombe, Slant & Honeyplace to defend him. Mr. Slant brings an action against Edmund for attempted extortion. And the next thing poor Edmund knew, he was found guilty and was sentenced to twenty years in Shadow Deep Prison."

"Poor Edmund."

"He had nice hands, doncha think?"

"Yeah, I liked his hands."


	4. Looking for Trouble

Chapter 4: Looking for Trouble

Monte Gribeau's carriage and four made its way smartly along the road leading to Sto Helit. The farmlands here were flat, marred only by a few low ridgelines. Cabbage fields spread out in all direction. Every once in a great while, a tower would rise up into the sky, one of the many clacks towers which dotted the landscape, connecting the cities of Anhk-Morpork and Sto Helit.

"Mmmrrraowwwrrr."

Obediently, Runt stopped the carriage next to a farmhouse.

Runt climbed down from the driver's seat and opened the door for le Compte de Monte Gribeau. The count got out and squinted up at the tower that loomed above him. It was a high and bulky monster, like a god gone bad.

The aged farmer and his wife crept cautiously out of their hovel. "'Morning, y'Lardship?"

"Rrwwwrrr."

The couple backed away.

"The Count of Monte Gribeau grants you a good morning," Runt assured them. "He begs your pardon; he has a slight speech impediment."

"Mmrrrroaw."

"He may wish to buy your land and asks how much you want for it?"

"Oh, it's not for sale, y'Lardship. It's all we have."

"Mmmrr mmrr mrr."

"Do you know of any farmland having a clacks tower that is for sale?"

The old man shrugged. "We don't get out much."

"Rrwww.

"How did you happen to come to sell the right to build the clacks tower?"

"Oh, we didn't sell it. Yeah, the clack's people took it by something called 'immediate domain.' We didn't want to sell, but they had one of them lawyer fellows, and so it was all legal like."

His wife added, "We wuz supposed to get a dollar a year fer it, but we ain't never seen a pence. Lousy lying zombie."

"Even if we had got the dollar, it wouldn't half make up for crop loss from having to grow crops in that thing's shadow."

There was a rickety, weather-beaten chair out in the front yard. The count sat in it. "Rrrwwwrrr?"

"Would you be kind enough to show my master the papers you signed?"

"Didn't sign no papers. There weren't none, and even if there wuz, I don't know how to write."

Again, le Compte de Monte Gribeau squinted up at the tower. He made a decision and called Runt over. They carried on a long, whispered conversation. When it was over, the dwarf straightened up and shook his head.

"My master would like to buy your land from you for one year. For this privilege, he will pay this diamond."

The count held up a diamond as large as a hen's egg.

"During that year, you may stay on the land, you may farm the land, you may harvest the land, you may sell the harvest, and you may keep the proceeds of the harvest. You will not pay any rent. And, at the end of the year, the land will once again become yours."

The farmer scratched his head. "'Scuse me, mister. But it seems to me that your master would be giving me this diamond for a whole lot of nothing."

"Not for nothing. For one year, he will be the legal owner of the land."

The wife interrupted. "And what's something like that worth?" she asked suspiciously.

"Why," said Runt, "exactly one diamond."

CG

The Compte de Monte Gribeau's coach and four returned to Anhk-Morpork. Runt drove the coach expertly through the streets to the 8th Municipal Bank of Ankh-Morpork. Le Compte ascended the steps and went inside and crossed to Dibbler's private office.

"Monsieur le Compte!" gushed S-M-O-T Dibbler. "Back so soon? What a pleasant surprise!"

"RrrrRRRrRRr, maow, mrr."

"Quiet," translated Runt. "I have something to tell you in strictest confidence. Can you be trusted?"

"Oh, Monsieur le Compte! You have my personal guarantee!"

"Rrwwwrr. Yawl, murr, murr, murr."

"I have spies everywhere, questing, questing, questing."

"You mean like those delightful ladies you had over at your place last night?"

"Rrwwrr."

"Everywhere."

"Rrooouuuwww, mmrrrww, yarrr, maowww."

"They tell me that rats have gotten into the city's wheat supplies, destroying much of it. Tomorrow, when the good citizens of Anhk-Morpork arise expecting their morning coffee and buns, plfffft, no buns."

Dibbler's eyes opened wide.

"I need you to write me a sight draft for five thousand Anhk-Morpork dollars. I'll take it to the clacks office and order five-thousand-dollars' worth of Sto Helit buns to be delivered by early tomorrow morning. I'll make a fortune. I only hope I'm ordering enough. Remember, tell no one."

Dibbler had Bernard whip up the sight draft.

Once the count had departed for the nearest clacks office, Dibbler told Bernard, "Now, write up a sight draft on my own personal account for five thousand dollars."

Bernard raised a skeptical eyebrow. "There won't be much left if I do."

"I will order buns from Quirm. Then contact our largest customers and tell them that Dibbler recommends the immediate mass importation of buns."

CG

"Uh oh," mumbled Runt as he guided the carriage into the general work yard of the Avalanche and Quake Demolition Company. Trolls stopped what they were doing and glared at the dwarf. Chained down between chunks of broken stone and twisted iron, wardogs barked and jerked at their iron chains. A three-headed cerberus slavered at him. Momma Thunderbelch had always told him to stay out of places like this. He halted the coach and crawled down (very carefully) to open the door for le Compte de Monte Gribeau.

When the dogs saw Greebo, they went from frenzied to crazy. Calmly, the count strolled over to the nearest one. He raised one hand, and five needle-sharp claws slid silently out.

"Bow wowowow-WOW!" barked the dog when he saw what he was up against. The 'KILL!' command in his small, canine brain suddenly changed to 'RETREAT!' The wardog turned and ran until his chain ended, which flipped his feet out in front of him, and he landed on his tail.

The other dogs' homicidal barks became nervous whines.

"HEY!" A gigantic troll was tromping down the steps of the command trailer, the wooden steps bending with his tremendous rocky weight. "Wat you do wit' my dog?"

"RRwwwrrrmmm," replied Monte Gribeau.

"My master says he was just admiring your cute puppy."

"Puppy? Dat dog is killer!"

"Mrrmmrrrr rrhrr."

"My master says, 'Naw. He's just a cute little puppy'."

The count made his way to the cringing wardog, bent over its quivering form, patted it on its trembling head, and (blocking the troll's view) loosed a threatening hiss. The dog fainted. The count stood and turned back to the troll. "Rrwwrr."

"My master wishes me to introduce him. He is le Compte de Monte Gribeau. And you are . . ?"

"Avalanche," rumbled Avalanche, coming closer.

"Ah yes. Well, my master wishes to offer you a lot of money."

The moss over one eye rose. "How much? For wat?"

"Have you ever torn down a clacks tower?"

"Ha! No one tears dem down. More an' more jus' get built."

"Would you like to be the first?"

The troll thought about this.1 Then his lips parted as he grinned, showing diamond teeth.

Runt and the count returned home that evening just as hoards of garishly dressed young women were climbing out of their carriages.

"I haven't met anyone as vigorous as the count," commented one of the girls, "since my cat died. I named him Randy because, well, he was."

End Notes:

1 "Thought" being a somewhat overly broad use of the verb.


	5. Trouble

Chapter 5: Trouble

The next morning, Runt drove le Compte de Monte Gribeau to the 8th Municipal Bank of Ankh-Morpork. Le Monsieur de Compte ascended the steps and entered into chaos.

Enraged businessmen had cornered Dibbler against the door to his private office and were screaming at him about their staggering losses. He was stuttering and stammering about his similar losses, but his lame excuses were inadequate to quench their rage.

The count crossed over to where Bernard was sitting. The tidy man was dripping with uncertainty about what to do.

"Rrwwmmmrrwm."

"Good morning, Bernard," translated Runt. "My master wishes to cancel his withdrawal of these funds." Runt handed Bernard the still-intact sight draft.

"Cancel?"

"Mrrroawww."

"Yes. You see, my master was fortunate to learn before purchasing the Sto Helit buns that the information he had about rats eating wheat was incorrect. As it turns out, there is plenty of wheat to make buns. So, the importation of more buns would have been financially ruinous. He is therefore returning the money with no harm done."

Bernard glanced over at the men shouting at Dibbler.

"No harm?"

"Precisely."

"Ulp."

Dibbler managed to elude the enraged mob by escaping into his private office and quickly locking the door. As his valued customers pounded impotently on the door, Dibbler hurried to the closet and took out his sausage-inna-bun tray ("Guaranteed No Rat!"). He pulled off is suit, threw it into the closet, and put on his well-worn street clothes. Then he opened the window to Sever-My-Own-Trachea's office, and Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler stepped out into the familiar alleyways of Anhk-Morpork.

Dibbler hurried to Ptomaine Ptom's Wholesale Mystery Meat Close-Out Specials and purchased a tray full of sausages-inna-bun and meat pies. Then he hit the streets.

"Sausage inna bun!" he shouted. "Sausage inna bun. Get 'em while they're hot! Guaranteed no rat!" When he got to the edge of the dwarf district, he removed to tile on his tray that had "No" printed on it and turned it around so that "100%" was showing. Then he began the cry of, "Sausage inna bun! Sausage inna bun. Get 'em while they're hot! Guaranteed 100% rat!"

Life was like a sausage-inna-bun. You never knew what you were going to get until you took a big bite of one.

CG

Le Compte de Monte Gribeau next went to the law offices of Morcombe, Slant & Honeyplace, but as it happened, Mr. Slant was in court that morning. So Runt drove Monsieur le Compte to the city courthouse.

In the courthouse's cantina, they found Mr. Slant and Jon Gilt in a heated conversation.

"They tore down my clacks tower!" Jon Gilt was bellowing. "They tore down my clacks tower! All communications between here and Sto Helit have been severed!"

"What do you care?" asked Mr. Slant calmly. "Subscribers to the clacks must still pay their fees whether you deliver services or not. It's required by their contracts — which I wrote."

"You're missing the point! The clacks in my toy! Mine! Mine! Mine! Me and Reacher used a double-leveraged buy out to take it away from Dearheart, and so it's mine! And now those cabbage farmers are messing with it. I want them sued, sued for every last pence they have, every last pence they will ever have in the future, and every last pence they have ever dreamed about having! I want them bankrupted, destroyed, obliterated, wiped from the face of the Discworld!"

The other lawyers (who were pretending not to be listening in) drooled. Jon Gilt was speaking their language.

Mr. Slant had the patience of the dead. "My dear Mr. Gilt," he wheezed. "You are overlooking two things."

Spittle dribbled from the corner of Jon Gilt's mouth.

"One: you are ignoring the First Rule of Law. That is: Never, ever sue poor people. Listen, even assuming one is successful in obtaining a judgment, one will discover that the piece of paper upon which the judgment is written is worth more than the amount of money which can be collected from an impoverished judgment debtor. TWO —"

Jon Gilt was silenced by the raising of Mr. Slant's voice.

The zombie continued calmly, "I can assure you that this pitiful family of impoverished cabbage farmers was not responsible for the destruction of your tower."

"What makes you say that?" asked Jon Gilt suspiciously.

"Sir, hiring a demolition company to tear down a clacks tower costs money. This family of cabbage farmers has no money. I made sure of that long ago. They could not have paid Mr. Avalanche and Mr. Quake."

"Then who did? Who is responsible?"

Mr. Slant smiled. "That, Mr. Gilt, is what you are going to pay me a lot of money to find out." He glanced around the cantina at his colleagues, envious of how easily he could make his client dance to his tune. They particularly liked the "pay me a lot of money" part.

"How much money?" asked Jon Gilt.

"Rrrwwrrrmmwwrr."

"My master says not to pay him. My master knows who paid for the demolition."

"Who?" roared Jon Gilt.

Mr. Slant's voice echoed like a voice from the tomb. "Yes, who?"

"Rrr."

Runt shrugged. "Why, Le Compte de Monte Gribeau."

"YOU!" Jon Gilt started forward, but his lawyer stopped him as if to say, _not in front of so many witnesses_.

Then Mr. Slant stepped between his enraged client and the count. "You, sir, had no legal justification for demolishing that tower."

"Rrrmmmrrow."

"My master informs you that, as of yesterday, he is the legal owner of the farm, and he points out the tower was on his property."

"Not true," replied Mr. Slant. "The portion for the tower was taken by eminent domain."

"Rrrooowwll?"  
>"That is a government power, and the clack's corporation is a private company. So how—"<p>

"And we have a signed contract with the then-owner. I am nothing if not thorough."

"RrrRRrRRr."

"My master says, you have no such contract."

"Oh? Then what is this?" He reached into the massive briefcase he always carried with him and found the correct piece of paper. He brought it out in great triumph. "What is this?"

Le Compte of Monte Gribeau leaned in to get a closer look. "Rrrmmmoww-rrowwww. Mrrr, mrrr, mrrr."

My master points out the signature of the notary (namely Mr. Slant) and the signature of the property owner are both in the same handwriting, and he also wishes to remind you that those cabbage farmers are completely illiterate. They have no idea how to even write their name."

"Mmmrrrwww wrrroww rrmm."

Runt continued. "You have made the three worst errors a lawyer could ever make. First, you have created a forged and fraudulent document. Second and far worse, you have been caught doing it. And third and most grievous of all, you have misunderstood the First Rule of Law. It is not: never, ever sue poor people. It is never, ever sue rich people. If someone like le Compte of Monte Cristo wishes to crush you, he needs only to roll over in his sleep. And so Mr. Slant, what do you think the Lawyer's Guild will say about your string of blunders?"

"Check and mate," chuckled Mr. Slant. "You do know, don't you, that I am the Lawyers' Guild. I Am The Lawyers' Guild! I AM THE LAWYERS' GUILD!"

"Mmrrrmmm rrwwwrrwr rrrm."

"My master would like to point out," Runt said quietly, "that you are not the Lawyers' Guild." He pointed to the hostile eyes in the circle surrounding them. "They are."

It may be impossible to kill a zombie, but it was possible to make him curse the day he'd risen from the grave.


	6. Duel to the Death

Chapter 6: Duel to the Death

So it had come to this. A duel on the field on honor.

Jon Gilt could not be mollified, and so he'd been the one to issue the challenge. Le Compte de Monte Gribeau therefore had the choice of place, time and weapon. The place was the Field of Cadbury1. The time was high noon. The weapon: blades. Jon Gilt's friends tried to convince him to postpone things until his older brother Reacher returned. But Jon would listen to nobody.

A large and nervous crowd had gathered. Le Compte and Runt waited calmly. A few minutes before noon, Jon Gilt arrived in an elegant coach along with three of his more deadly employees.

"These are my seconds," he announced gravely, "and my I assume that the dwarf is yours?"

"Second? What's that?"

"Someone to assure that the fight is a fair one and to step in if it becomes necessary to forcefully separate the duelists."

"Me?" gulped Runt. He looked around for a way out.

"Don't worry," came an ancient voice out of the crowd. "I'll act as second." The scrawny old man came forward. He was at least ninety, completely bald with skin resembling beef jerky combined with scar tissue. The man was naked but for an eye patch, a skimpy loincloth, fur leggings over sandals, a crown of gold, and a diamond and ruby necklace with matching bracelets. His sword was bigger than he was.

Excitement ran through the crowd. "Cohen the Barbarian!" "Genghis Cohen!" "Cohen the Barbarian!" "Cohen the Barbarian!" "Sausage inna bun!" "Cohen the Barbarian!" "Genghis Cohen!" "Get 'em while they're hot!" "Cohen the Barbarian!"

Le Compte of Monte Gribeau nodded his assent.

A sneer formed on Jon Gilt's lip. "Not only have you forgotten to bring a second, but you've also forgotten to bring a sword." He pulled out his own rapier and made several expert practice swipes.

Le Compte of Monte Gribeau held out one of his boots to Runt, who pulled it off. He next held out the other one, and Runt removed that one as well. Then the count turned to Jon Gilt and raised one hand. Five needle-sharp claws slid out. He raised the other hand, a five more needle-sharp claws also emerged. Jon Gilt's eyes traveled down to the count's bare feet in time to see ten more needle-sharp claws emerge.

"Rrrwwwoooooalllwww2!" announced le Compte de Monte Gribeau, and he pounced.

Suddenly, Jon Gilt realized he was outnumbered twenty to one. He did what any swordsman would do. He immediately forgot his years of fencing instructions and practice, and swinging his rapier like a madman, gave away ground as if it were week-old fish.

"Rrrwwwoooooalllwww!" cried le Compte de Monte Gribeau as he went after him.

Suddenly, Jon Gild threw down his rapier. "I surrender! I surrender! Mercy! Quarter, quarter, quarter!"

The count stopped his charge. There was no sport in a mouse who refused to fight back. He turned to leave.

The crowd gasped in disbelief as Jon Gilt grabbed his sword and jumped back up to his feet with murderous intent.

SWISH! The broad blade of Cohen the Barbarian's giant sword cut neatly through Jon Gilt's thin rapier and neck. The surprised head flipped up into the air and landed with a plop a few years away.

Okay. Now Jon Gilt was really angry. Again he grabbed his sword and leaped to his feet.

"KNOCK KNOCK."

"What?" It was such a ludicrous thing for anyone to say that the words stopped Jon Gilt cold.

The cloaked stranger with the sickle said, "I'M WORKING ON A KNOCK-KNOCK JOKE, BUT I'M HAVING SOME TROUBLE WITH IT. MAYBE YOU CAN HELP ME. KNOCK KNOCK."

Jon Gilt's eyes flickered left and right. Was this guy serious? "Okay, okay. Who's there?"

"YOUR TIME ON DISCWORLD IS OVER."

Huh? "Your Time on Discworld is Over Who?"

The body shoulders sagged. "THAT'S THE PART I'M HAVING TROUBLE WITH."

Le Compte of Monte Gribeau cast a curious glance behind him. When he saw Jon Gilt's headless body, he motioned Cohen to follow him. They got to the coach, and Runt opened the door for them.

"Rrwwwwrrrrr?"

"My master says he owes you a great favor. How can he attempt to repay you?"

Cohen rubbed his eye patch. "He can tell me where he found his treasure."

"Sir?"

"Did he by any chance learn of it from Edmund the Dentist? You see, my hoard appears to be missing." The barbarian smiled revealing dentures made from troll teeth. His diamonds glittered in the sunlight.

The count glared at him with his one good eye.

The barbarian glared back, with his one good eye.

Then the two realized, they were seeing eye-to-eye.

Cohen the Barbarian scratched behind the battle-torn ear of the fat, gray tomcat which sat in his lap as they rode along in le Compte de Monte Gribeau's coach towards Lancre. Cohen pondered the question which had been floating around Anhk-Morpork for a long time:

Who is Jon Gilt?

Jon Gilt had been an adherent of the philosophy called "Objectification." They only believed in object that could been seen, heard, smelt, touched or tasted. The man did not understand the concepts of beauty, of the soul, of morality, or of humanity. If he had been asked what moral obligation he owed to his fellow man, he would have blinked in confusion and would have blurted out, "None." To him, everything and everyone were mere objects, to be acquired and/or manipulated.

Jon Gilt had been one of those "civilized" men who believed that wealth was created by digging up metals or gems from out of the ground and then re-burying them somewhere else. Either that or by stealing, swindling, or scamming some poor mother's son out of his hard-earned wealth. Jon Gilt could never have been a farmer or a craftsman or any kind of a true creator. He merely had collected shiny objects, in much the same way as did a thieving blue jay.

Barbarians weren't really the ones to talk, though. Their wealth was also obtained by theft or by conquest. But with barbarians, the purpose of wealth was not wealth itself. Rather, gold and jewels were a means of keeping score. What was important was the triumph. Jon Gilt had known nothing of triumph, which of course was not an object. Instead, his life had revolved around the accumulation of worthless wealth. And in the end, his blind pursuant of material objects had killed him.

On second thought barbarians were not at all like Jon Gilt. They were more like cats. Both barbarians and cats believed in fighting, in eating and drinking, and in the pursuit of wild women3. Of course, there were differences. Cats had more legs, for example, and gave themselves more baths. Cats wouldn't fight to the death, only to the victory. Their philosophy was: what good was defeating an enemy if he were too dead to realize he'd been beaten? On the other hand, barbarians believed that an enemy who was dead would almost certainly stop being such a blessed nuisance. 

Runt stopped the coach in front of Nanny Ogg's spacious townhouse in Lancre Town. He jumped down and opened the door for Cohen and Greebo.

"Mr. Puss-Puss!" cried Nanny Ogg happily. She hurried over and scratched his ear as he nuzzled her shoe. "Wherever did you find him?"

"Anhk-Morpork," answered Cohen the Barbarian.

"What was he doing there?"

"Oh, causing a bit of trouble."

"My little puss-puss? Never. He's such a good little cutie pie." She looked at the dreaded barbarian. "So, foreign parts eh? Did ya bring me a souvenir?"

Genghis Cohen hadn't grown to be ninety years old by neglecting to bring Nanny Ogg souvenirs. He handed over a small box. She examined it.

"String?"

"Dental floss."

"I only got one tooth."

"Edmund the Dentist says it's important that everyone floss every day."

"Edmund the Dentist? Isn't he that poor soul who's imprisoned in Shadow Deep?"

"Not anymore," said Cohen the Barbarian, grinning with diamond teeth which had been freshly polished.

Suddenly, Greebo's ear and a half flattened. He'd heard sounds from inside the townhouse, and Nanny Ogg was outside. He crept forward, ready for anything.

When he entered the living room, Greebo froze. There were only three creatures on Discworld that Greebo was afraid of. One was Erzulie Gogol's familiar, a black cockerel named Legba, but this was not Genua. Another was the Nac Mac Feegles, but this was not the Chalk. The third was Granny Weaterwax's fluffy white kitten named You4.

You bounced across the floor and put his tiny paw up onto Greebo's sensitive nose, looking at him with big, innocent bluer-than-blue eyes. Greebo could feel You's sharp little claws longing to extend.

He turned and ran for it.

The End

Spend a couple of minutes and review this, pleeeeeease!

ENDNOTES:

1 In choosing the Field of Cadbury, le compte had made a little joke. The undertaker would, after all, be burying a cad. -Okay, it wasn't a great joke, but it was pretty good considering that it was made by a cat.

In The Three Musketeers, the celebrated dueling scene takes place at the Field of Mars. The Field of Cadbury is a lot like that, only more expensive.

2 "Rrrwwwoooooalllwww" is feline for "En garde!"

3 Genghis Cohen hated to admit that, for him, women were no longer a major motivating factor.

4 "You" as in, "Hey, You!" "Stop that, You!" and "You! Get out of there!"


End file.
